


(do you feel condemned just being there)

by brandyalexanders2 (brandyalexanders)



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, the obligatory repression and infidelity tomgreg tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27411379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandyalexanders/pseuds/brandyalexanders2
Summary: mediations on tom and his tendency to bottle things up, set during ‘hunting’.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 19
Kudos: 44





	(do you feel condemned just being there)

**Author's Note:**

> my beloved cousin gregory is too gorgeous in s2e3... you know tom would be all over him, looking pretty like that.

“You know, Tom, I hate to be uncouth but I might feel better if we could clear up what the fuck that was all about?” 

Tom’s mouth draws into a tight frown. He thinks about slamming the door behind the two of them, reconsiders, slots it neatly into the frame. “Your guess is as good as mine, so. I’m thinking maybe we should just drop it.” His hand lingers on the polished metal handle, his forehead drops against the wood. His posture is stinging like his pride. He wants out of his black slacks, they’re ruined with ancient European dust and boar fat. He wants Greg out of everything- he’s been far too gussied up all day. 

It makes him sick, looking Greg in the eye and seeing anything besides inherent existential guilt in his pathetic eyes. He’d been holding his chin up higher than usual all goddamn day, up until Logan dashed through both of their egos and left them on the floor to cope, or in Tom’s case, wallow. Tom wants to believe there were good intentions behind it. But fuck, maybe Greg’s right to ask, even if he doesn’t want to think about that shit ever again. 

“No, that’s fine. I mean, I just think it might help if we- like, don’t you want to talk about it?” 

Tom snorts and turns to face his assistant, or whatever job title Greg’s picked up to keep himself relevant. He’s still in his charcoal cable-knit, and jesus, is he using a personal shopper or something? Maybe Kendall had taken him to a tailor, or shown him where to get a half-decent haircut. Even after it’s been trapped under that ugly orange hunting cap all day it looks good, looks pretty, makes Tom’s stomach turn with bile. Fuck Greg and his fuckin’ Lands’ End catalogue model winsomeness. Fuck Kendall for taking up all of his time. And fuck Logan and his Hungarian torture chamber, he decides, even if the mere act of thinking it feels sacrilegious. 

“Why, do you? Want me to get out the fuckin’ champagne and dark chocolate so we can really make a night of it? I might have some Midol if you need it, you pussy. Fuck no, I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Obviously, you’re not in the mood. I can tell- yeah, you’re upset, Tom, so maybe I should just head back to my own,” he trails off, and _there’s_ Greg, _his_ Greg, timorous and malleable. 

“No, no, I want you stay.” Tom straightens out his back, stops admiring the old bones of the lodge and prowls the room until he’s close, edging just too far into Greg’s personal space. “I invited you to mine for a reason.” 

It’s been awhile since they’ve been in each other’s orbits, weeks since the last time he could fluster Greg just by leaning in. Tom doesn’t get how he can be so big and still so flighty; he’s like a warmblood horse, jittery with unfounded nerves. Shiv told him once that some horses would kill themselves to get away from harmless nonsense if it spooked them badly enough.

He tests the reins with a finger laced through Greg’s matte leather belt.

To his credit, Greg doesn’t startle away. He looks flushed but that’s nothing new. A bit of color in his cheeks suits him. Tom wants to bite his lip until he’s stained scarlet, until he can feel his pulse deep in his own chest. He hates himself for wanting so much of someone he’s meant to look down on. “What do you think, Greg, wanna take your mind off of that... momentary unpleasantness?” He lets his hand fall, flat over the neatly pressed front of his companion’s khakis. Greg gasps. Fucking khakis, alright, he’s going to fuck his in-law in a pair of dumb fucking khakis. He’s gonna strip him out of his pansy ass sweater, he’s gonna pull his hair until it looks actually messy and not pretentiously disheveled, he’s gonna lay his claim over Greg’s big stupid body so he can keep his thoughts from looping over and over it. 

He can’t stop his hands from wandering any more than he can his mind. They feel up Greg’s stomach, his fingertips seeking until they find his ribcage. Their bodies aren’t touching in nearly enough places. Greg isn’t responding besides his fluttery breathing, the swell of silence that makes him seem just a bit more calculating than he lets on. 

“Don’t you miss me, Gregory?” 

Tom doesn’t expect Greg’s long fingers wrapping around his wrists, pulling him down, away. It’s disappointing but he doesn’t push.

“The way I feel about you- it’s, Tom, I don’t want to upset you, but what if I can’t? Like, what if I’m kinda, I’m just a little bit stuck on,” he drops Tom’s wrists, rolls his hand in the air while he searches for the term, “the momentary unpleasantness?” He brackets it with air quotes. Jesus. 

Tom can’t think of anything he wants to address less. Greg’s eyebrows are knit up in his signature palpable anxiety. His lips are shaped in a perfect little bow, the Cousin Greg pout that makes Tom want to unwrap him and see what’s inside. 

He can’t not kiss him. He leans in, leans up, matches up their mouths and smirks when Greg kisses back. 

“You’re laced up so tight, Hirsch,” he offers, low in Greg’s ear, tracing the shell of it with the tip of his nose. “Let me pull your strings.” 

Greg never knows how to reply to him. He stumbles over his protest for a moment until Tom tells himself he’s bored of it and kisses him again, ardent, needy. It hurts to be so desperate. Greg just reciprocates dumbly, like he’s too braindead to notice how disgustingly vulnerable Tom is being for him. 

He’s so beautiful. He’s gorgeous perched on the edge of Tom’s bed, his hands knotting nervously in whatever animal pelt is draped over the down blanket. He’s got eyes like uncut coffee, black tar; they catch the light of the iron-wrought chandelier and shine with the sort of opulence he’s barely capable of appreciating. Tom tries for his sweater again. This time he helps, lifts his undershirts with it over his shoulders and exposes himself to the room. 

Tom wonders how many lovers this hall has seen as long as it’s stood here, kicks himself for using such a drippy, treacly word. He drowns out the imminent guilt and tarrying melancholy by straddling Greg’s lap, peeling off his own layers and letting them fall on the floor. He’s never looking at that fucking outfit again after he strips out of it. 

“Tom, I think on some level, this could end up being... not so good of an idea?” 

“Does that make it better for you? We can play like that if you want to. ‘Stop, don’t, I’m married now, and just imagine the buzz in HR,’” Tom intones, rolling his eyes and his hips. “It’s not a problem for _us_ anymore. There’s an arrangement.”

”It might- so, it’s great that the two of you have come to an agreement, but I think.” Greg pauses when he’s kissed. “It might be a problem- for me, like, on my end.” 

Tom shoves at his chest until he’s on his back, guides his arms to either side of his head and pins his wrists down. “What, you don’t want to be the other woman?” 

Greg regards him with patience that he might not deserve. He looks like he’d be wringing his hands if Tom wasn’t holding him steady. “That’s... that reads a little... insensitive, but I guess? I guess you could see it like that,” he says, but he still laces his fingers in Tom’s, and he’s sighing just a bit louder while Tom kisses his neck. 

Tom lifts a hand to cup his slanting cheek. He blinks, tries to settle the trepidation in his chest at the idea of being left alone in the middle of a plush mattress. It’s an incredible room, ornate and Old World-stylish. It’s too big for him all by himself, all night.

“Oh, I get it. You want me all to yourself, is what you’re saying.” He punctuates the observation by tracing the line of Greg’s torso all the way down to his belt, working his hands underneath his own weight to undo the silver buckle. “You want to be the only thing I think about, want my attention just for you, right?” 

“No, I mean,” it seems like it catches him out of breath and excuses, and Tom grins with satisfaction; he’s a dog herding livestock right where he wants it. He sits up to tug the belt out of the loops and undoes the button on his slacks with one hand. “Um, it’s not you, it’s me, but it’s also, like, my cousin?” 

Tom focuses on Greg’s bone structure rather than his head pounding out alarm, bumps their noses against each other. He tilts his head so their lips nearly fit together. “Don’t worry about it,” he murmurs. 

“Oh, no, I’m not worried. At all. No, promise.” 

Tom presses an unhurried kiss to his mouth, sighs and does his best not to relish the feeling of Greg under his thumb. “Just relax, Jesus, just- be here with me, yeah? I’m here with you.” 

He pulls at Greg’s zipper. Greg lulls but allows it, so Tom drags himself away and arranges himself on the floor between his lissome legs.

There’s no good way to say he’s been hoping for this all day. “Khakis off, Greg, yesterday,” he snaps. Greg sits up and does as he’s told, shucks what’s left of his clothes in the self-conscious way Tom refuses to find endearing. “Attaboy.” 

Greg is always so wound up. Tom kisses his thigh near the curve of his calf and he shudders like he hasn’t been touched in months- fuck, maybe he hasn’t, maybe Tom’s the last person who lathered him in soapy, smothering affection. He means to tease more but he’s egged on by the power trip, takes up Greg’s cock in his mouth and licks the tip to draw out a satisfying whimper. 

Nancy boy. 

It’s been awhile since he’s done this, obviously, but he doesn’t know how to give Greg nice things without overdoing it. He hollows his cheeks and uses his tongue and braces his hands on Greg’s hips, thumbs catching on the dents in his pelvis. He looks up at Greg and even from the funny low angle he’s like an overgrown little prince, comely and charming. He sounds like a silver flute, groans like a string section. Tom pulls back and kisses the base of his cock, open-mouth, sloppy. 

Greg manages to meet his eye and Tom smiles, peppering soft attention on his skin. “Tom, do you mind?” He drops his hands, rests one palm on the back of Tom’s head. 

Of course not, never, not when it’s Greg asking. Not after the night they’ve had. He opens his mouth and waits to be full again. It’s easier than trusting himself to respond at room temperature when he’s running so hot.

Cousin Greg is strong when he wants to be, firm against Tom’s head and steadfast in his mouth. His chest falls heavily, sinking with his lush sighs as he urges Tom forwards; _more, deeper_. Tom’s jaw goes slack as Greg eases further, inches out, holds Tom in place to slip back inside at a pace that just hints at lapsing repression. 

Tom’s world narrows past eventual lockjaw, hones in on Greg using his mouth to work out his discontent. He’s huffing out these ‘ahs’ and ‘ohs’ and it’s almost enough to convince Tom that he isn’t the only one who’s struggling with avarice, eyes and appetite working in tandem. It’s cruel. It’s the worst thing that’s happened to Tom all day, it’s a fantasy that aches too acutely to dwell on. 

But he can let Greg fuck his face. 

His nails are just a little too long. They scrape against Tom’s scalp, keep him present and servile. Greg must be close- his movements are shallow and less deliberate, more frantic. He’s gasping out Tom’s name. “Can I, can I,” he begs. Tom replies by not moving, by swallowing when Greg comes down his throat and staying in place until he feels a heavy shove on his shoulder. 

He doesn’t address it, after the fact. He leans his head against Greg’s knee and it’s amicable silence for a bit while they catch their breath.

“It’s been a bad day, pretty boy,” he says finally. 

“For sure, the worst.” Greg’s looking boneless and slightly distressed, and isn’t this all about forgetting what had happened? 

Tom rises to his feet. When he draws Greg in for a hug, it’s one of the rare occasions where Tom has any height on him, Greg’s head resting on his broad chest. He brushes through his dark hair and it’s just as soft as it looks. How positively lovesome. 

“I packed condoms.” 

“Oh. Um.” He can feel Greg’s subtle smile, loves the way it lights up his face even if he can’t see it. “Yeah,” he agrees, “yeah, that’s alright.” 

That’s something, and Tom clutches it and holds it close. It’ll melt through his fingers like snow later. It’s just a drop in the deep blue Pacific of problems that have cropped up on this trip alone. He wants to feel Greg’s sinewy grasp every day, embroider their hands together, let everyone see all the ways they’re connected.

They can’t even leave from the same room in the morning.

He rubs at Greg’s shoulders, kisses his forehead. He tries to bind them tightly together with currency they can only spend here, the self-sustaining economy of a sordid tryst. 

_But it’s not an affair._ It’s perfectly within the boundaries of the arrangement, so above-board it’s barely worth disclosing. It’s stress relief, trauma bonding, survivor’s guilt, conspiratorial camaraderie. It’s Stockholm syndrome, and he’s the hostage and the captor, but the news has it all wrong anyway. It’s whatever he can call it to pathologize the whole messy thing. 

Tom overthinks. Greg is touching him back, persuading him to come back to bed and scrub their hands of the stress of dinner, of existing in a way that they can’t quite get comfortable with. 

He doesn’t have to be honest with himself just yet. He hopes he can be good enough to be honest with Greg. 

**Author's Note:**

> i literally. cant stop thinking about pretty boy greg. he is so pretty. and why did he refer to himself as a pretty boy! why do i have to live with that scene existing ! ! 
> 
> this was meant to be... something else but i ended up writing in tom’s perspective and it went off the rails. it’s the repression for me. 
> 
> i just finished s2 so now i can read all the s2 tomgreg fics. i am so excited, yall are so talented!! 
> 
> thanks for reading ily tomgreg nation


End file.
